


atlas & andromeda

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back
Genre: F/M, In Which We All Scream at Leia to Climb that Nerf Herder Like a Tree and Damn the Consequentials, They Always Have Gotten to Me, They Always Will Get to Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leia happens to like nice men, not men who'll fill up her heart and sink it. Post kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	atlas & andromeda

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing whatsoever about the extended universe, the lingo or, in fact, what I'm doing. I just know that when I refer to these two as 'the greatest romance in the history of space and time', I mean it.

“So we’re not talking about this, then.”

“Nope.”

Oh help, when did I start to sound like him? I say ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. I burn the tips of my fingers attempting a tricky recoupling rather than so much as _look_ at Han Solo. I should not in any way sound like him.

“And just to be clear –” He swings into the space, into _my_ space. Han doesn’t walk. Han can’t walk. There’s too much of him. He’s too tall or too expressive or too _something_. “What is ‘this’? It this you and me? Is this you and the kid? Listen, I couldn’t care less if you want to talk to me or not, but you owe Luke –”

“Luke? What are you talking about, flyboy? What could I possibly owe _Luke_?”

“Gee, let me think!” He widens speckled green eyes at me, goggles at me like I’m a moron. I get it, of course I get it. I’m avoiding getting it the way I’m avoiding talking about it. I’m focusing on a torsion-driver rather than talking about it. I already owe Luke an apology, and I feel like I should add an extra one to the apology tally every day we’re away from him. We’re the same age, but I knew better. I _know_ better. He grew up on a moisture farm on one of the most desolate inhabited planets in the galaxy, how many girls can he have had to flirt with? To kiss? And I’ve done both, I’ve done – well, a lot of one, and at least a little of the other. I’ve done both _even though_ I knew better, _know_ better: even though I know the reason I made Luke Skywalker blush wasn’t always Luke Skywalker. That’s shameful. That’s cruel.

I drop my head, though my chin was already halfway to my chest. “I haven’t done anything I’m ashamed of,” I say stubbornly. “Not of my own free will, anyhow.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Han inserts himself right in front of me without my having any idea of how he got there. He moves fast, the foofy-haired wise-cracking renegade. His mouth is constantly moving, quipping, grinning, grimacing at me. When he sits down and stretches out, unfolding his long legs, I wonder if they’re ever going to stop. He fills up my field. I can’t work around him. “Not to be a _scoundrel_ about it, Princess –” Oh, _help_. “But I don’t recall you kicking and screaming.” He drops back a little, withdrawing his heat from so close to me. I miss it automatically. I squirm when he points out, more accurately than amorously, “And if you don’t owe Luke anything, then I don’t see the problem.”

My pride is the problem. The Empire is the problem. He, _he_ is the problem. He, who slings his arm around my shoulders, who puts his hand on my hand. He, who can be so easy with everyone. Me, who can’t be easy with _anyone_. The fact that he keeps trying to run away, and leave the Alliance behind, and leave _me_ behind – that’s the problem.

The fact that I’m doing exactly the same thing, and running away from him, running all over his starship – that’s the problem.

The problem is that I can _feel_ Han looking at my burned fingers, my scraped knuckles, and wishing they were smooth and pretty. I can feel him wishing for my hair to be washed and for me to be out of this _hideous_ snowsuit that was so suitable for Hoth, and after I’ve been out for a good few minutes, in something which makes me look like a princess. He doesn’t hate my pedestal, it gives him something to knock me down from. I can practically hear him: _come on_. _Come down_. _Come here_.

But he’s too heavy for me, I know he is. If I let him fill up my heart, he’ll sink it, and then down we’ll both go. I will spend the rest of the war, the rest of my _life_ mourning Han Solo, and dreaming about Han Solo, and probably buying one of those awful leisure droids and naming it ‘Han Solo’, if there’s anything left to buy – or anywhere left to buy it – once we’re through here. I can’t flirt with him, he’s too good. I can fight with him, and he’s good at that too, but no one is as good as me.

On the outside.

On the surface.

Not on the inside, where I’m all punched through with holes anyway. Han Solo would be the hole to end all holes, and that’s the problem.

He’d be the hole that made me pieces.

I’ve been wondering and wondering, the torsion-driver hanging loosing, sparking faintly. He’s been collecting what he needs, ignoring me completely. He’s heading out now, and his expression tells me loud and clear that I’ve given something away. He’s gotten something from my face, or maybe he just knew something all along. Maybe this whole conversation was pointless, because he knew all along how things will turn out. Maybe we both do.

There’s a smudge on the bridge of his strong, straight nose, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to mention it.

“It’s going to happen, you know,” he says quietly. He’s stopped in the doorway, braced himself on one side. “We’re in the middle of a war, this kind of stuff happens.” His hand looks so capable where it curls around the frame of the door that I think he could hold a planet in it. I think he could hold up the sky. I also think I’m an idiot. “Don’t let it be something that happens _to_ you, Your Worship.”

 _Come on_ is what he means. _Come down_. _Come here_. What I hope I mean is _not yet_. I hope the truth I’m too stubborn to say is _yes_ , _I will_ , _soon_ , _but not yet_. _Wait for me_. _Wait until I’m sure_. I’m sure he’s the biggest, longest-legged gamble I’ll ever take. I’m sure the Alliance feels likewise.

I’m sure that he cares.

I’m sure about everything, actually, but most of all I’m sure that when he takes this bucket of bolts and flies far, far away from me, I’m never going to feel like this ever again.


End file.
